


How to Win Family and Influence Detectives

by vaughnicus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Conflict, Futurefic, M/M, Parent!lock, Post Reichenbach, happy sappy resolution, then resolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 01:06:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaughnicus/pseuds/vaughnicus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a difficult subject to bring up with Sherlock... Luckily, he meets someone who may help with the problem. </p>
<p>His name is Hamish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Win Family and Influence Detectives

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the lovely juniperrain, who won my contest over on tumblr. She requested parent!lock. Here you go, darling. I do hope you appreciate it. I've never written parentlock before, so I hope I kept everyone sufficiently in character. 
> 
> Title is taken from 'How to Win Friend and Influence People,' the book (though I've never read it and really, the title just makes me think of Supernatural).

John wakes up smiling.

            The expression grows brighter as he feels the long arms wound around his waist, and he reaches over to pull Sherlock closer to him. Sherlock. His _husband._ John rolls the words around in his mind, still not used to it after half a month.

            His hand moves absently through the leaner man’s curls, silky strands slipping through his fingers and bouncing gently to the scalp beneath. Beside him, Sherlock shifts, muttering as his eyes blink slowly open.

            “Morning, love,” John greets. The only reply he gets is a grunt. “I can see you’re very chipper today,”

            “Early, John.”

            The doctor vibrates with quiet laughter. “And to think you used to not sleep.”

            “Well you fixed that, didn’t you?” Sherlock finally seems to come awake, pushing himself up the headboard. He eyes John’s bare torso and slides his hands further along it, smirking at the goose bumps that rise.

            “The wonder of subconscious physiological responses,” comes the deep murmur.

            John tightens his hold on the detective, turning to bury his face in his hair. “If that’s how you want to put it.”

            “Let’s experiment.” Sherlock pulls closer to him, hand drifting towards John’s boxers.

            But John pulls away, slipping out of the bed. “No, Sherlock. I’ve got to go to work.”

            Sherlock doesn’t move, glaring halfheartedly. “You finally find a way to prove I’m not a machine, and now you won’t let me do it.”

            “Not when I’ll get fired if I’m late one more time.”

            “I don’t understand why you keep that job, anyway. Nothing but snot-nosed children and overweight idiots all day.”

            “Well, it’s an income. And I wouldn’t expect you to understand this, Sherlock, but I actually like helping people.

            Muttering derisively, Sherlock turns away, pulling their duvet higher. A balled-up sock hits him smack on the forehead.

            “What the hell, John?”

            “Up ‘n at ‘em, babe,” John replies, more than a tad mockingly. “You are _not_ staying in bed all day. Go clean some experiments out of the freezer.”

            Sherlock makes no move to do so, instead sitting up and staring openly as John pulls on an undershirt. Suddenly he throws the covers off and stands, grabbing his dressing gown from the bedside table. As he’s tying it up, he remarks casually, “you know, you underperform when you’re stressed.”

            John freezes in the middle of buttoning up his shirt.

            “Sorry, what?”

            “Your sexual performance, John. It suffers when you’re worried about something – as it did last night.”

            John runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “You’re saying I did poorly in bed last night, and you think it’s because I’m worried about something?”

            “Yes, John. Do keep up.”

            “Is this your roundabout way of asking what’s wrong?”

            Sherlock just stares, and John huffs disbelievingly. “I’m fine. I’m sorry I wasn’t a wonder last night – maybe it’s because someone’s been keeping me from getting as much sleep as I should be.”

            “Your sleep deprivation is irrelevant. There’s something else.”

            John turns towards the door. “If you really think so, I’m sure you can deduce it. I’m eating then leaving. If you want breakfast come down in the next five minutes.”

                                                           

* * *

 

 

            They’re in a cab, headed for New Scotland Yard. It’s been a day since their morning conversation and Sherlock hasn’t said anything more about it. They’re driving through a light when he breaks his silence on the matter.

            “Is it because of the ceremony?”

            “ _What?_ ”

            Sherlock’s stare is directed out the window. “Your mood. Is it due to our partnership being legally bound in an underwhelming way? I know you used to plan on a wedding more… extravagant.”

            “Sherlock,” John begins, setting a hand on his spouse’s leg. “It was perfect. If I wanted something else I would’ve said so, you know that. Besides, that was over two weeks ago. Why are you bringing it up now?”

            The detective turns to him, eyes narrowed. “Because. I don’t know why else you’d be unhappy. You’re a _puzzle_ , John, but not one I’ve yet solved. You’re infuriating.”

            “And I’m pretty sure that’s why you let me stick around.”

            “Don’t be an idiot, John,” Sherlock scoffs. “You’re also the only other human being I’ve found in my observed existence to cause personal brain chemical imbalance.”

            “Mmm, well thank your brain for me.”

            Sherlock shoots him that ‘ _I just told you_ not _to be an idiot, Jawn_ ’ look, but the blogger only smiles.

            “So what is it?”

            “Sherlock, will you stop? It’s nothing of your concern.”

            “So it is something?”

            “Yes!” John growls. “Yes. There is something I’ve been thinking about lately. But I’m not going to talk to you about it yet.”

            Sherlock perks up. “Yet?”

            “You heard me.” John folds his arms. “I have to dwell on it more, then _maybe_ I’ll talk to you later.”

                                                

* * *

 

 

            ‘Later’ turns out to be two hours after that, but it’s not John who brings it up.

            Sherlock is crouching down to examine a body, magnifier in hand. John and Lestrade converse quietly as he does so. There are a couple other cops in the alley working forensics (no Anderson, though, and John is quietly thankful for that). The body has been left in said alleyway, carelessly tossed into a dumpster. Sherlock stands, and the men turn to him, expecting a monologue about the murderer. But his gaze lands on John as he suddenly states, “you want children.”

            John manages to catch his jaw before it hits the ground. He grabs the lapel of Sherlock’s coat and turns to Lestrade.

            “Give us a minute.”

            Clearly taken aback, the DI only nods.

            John maneuvers his detective out of the alley and around a corner, where he faces him.

            “Damn it, Sherlock!”

            The taller man looks nonplussed. “I’m correct, then.”

            “Of course you are! But did you really need to announce our personal matters at a crime scene?”

            “You would have confided in Lestrade, anyway.”

            “That’s not-“ John breaks off, takes a breath. He starts again, forcibly calm. “That’s not the point.”

            Sherlock meets his partner’s gaze, face tranquil as ever. “Then I apologize, John. It would seem I’ve still much to hear on your… social restrictions.”

            “Yes. You certainly do.” John sighs, brushing an affectionate finger over Sherlock’s cheek. “Now come on. We’ll talk about this at home – you’ve got a murder to attend to.”

            John starts to worry when it takes almost ten minutes to solve.

                                               

* * *

 

 

            Sherlock blows into the flat ahead of John. By the time the ex-soldier has gotten through the door, he’s perched on his chair, hands under his chin. Sharp, probing eyes pick over John.

            “We have been over this.”

            John sighs, shuffling into the kitchen to make tea. “I know. That’s why I didn’t want to bring it up again.”

            “We can’t have children, John. You agreed – our lifestyle is too dangerous.”

            “I know that, but… what if it were different?”

            “It can’t be.”

            “Just hear me out.” John’s come back into the living area now, and has two cups of tea set out by them. He settles onto the sofa. “If we adopted, say, a young boy who was old enough to know his way around but young enough to learn, it could work.”

            Sherlock slips deep into his chair. “Finding an orphan who meets both those requirements and my intellectual standards is highly unlikely.”

            “Sherlock, finding an _adult_ who meets your intellectual standards is _impossible._ ”

            “My point.”

            “Can’t we just try? At least look, if only just the once?”

            Sherlock stands. “I do not wish to be a father. Good night, John.”

            The doctor sighs in exasperation but drops the subject, taking the teacups into the kitchen before following Sherlock to bed.

                                              

* * *

 

 

            They don’t talk about it the next morning. Or the morning after that. The subject is, in fact, dropped until almost a week later.

            John has had a long day at work. It started with a 50 year old woman trying to seduce him and didn’t let up. So to say he’s a bit tired of it all when he leaves the building would be an understatement. But he’s never been one to run from trouble or intrigue, so when a young shout echoes from a nearby alleyway, he barely gives it a second thought before turning off the main street and into it.

            The scene before him is not a pleasant one. There are three larger boys (late high school age by the looks of it) surrounding a much younger, smaller one. The intended victim is scrawny and pale with a mussed patch of dark hair bobbing wildly atop his head. Bizarrely, John is reminded of Sherlock.

            The high school boys are backing the other one against the alley corner, muttering some no doubt threatening things. John doesn’t wait to hear what they are.

            “ _Hey!”_

            All four males turn and stare at him, the short older man who sounds quite cross. The leader of the pack, a very tall broad-shouldered Alpha Male type, steps forward with a smirk.

            “What do you need, gramps?”

            “I _need_ you to step away from that boy.”

            The cocky boy laughs, giving a haughty glance to his colleagues. “I think you should carry on your walk. Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself, now.”

            John clenches his fists. “Careful with your words. Really, please just leave.”

            “Or what? This nancy here owes me something, an’ I’m gonna get it.” He steps forward again, loosely curling his fists and raising them. “An’ don’t think you’re gonna stop me.”

            With a longsuffering sigh, John closes the gap between them. He does not hesitate before plowing an open palm into the teen’s sternum (he is, of course, pulling his punches. Wouldn’t want to kill the anyone, now), following it up with a jab to his side. The boy doubles over and John almost gently pushes the back of his neck towards the ground. He collapses.

            “And here I thought I was going to have to fight.”

            John tuts, brushing past the two other petrified bullies to the lad behind them.

            “Care to join me?”

            The boy blinks, at once impressed and slightly frightened. His fear is quickly hidden behind dull brown irises, though.

            “I suppose.”

            Chuckling at the response, John saunters out of the alley with the boy close behind. “So what were they on you for?”

            “Oh, the usual: money, homework, anything they could get.”

            John gives the boy a sidelong glance, a faint crease between his brows. “Is this a common occurrence?”

            “Yes,” is the easy reply. “But this type of thing is to be expected when someone supposedly inferior to them insults their collective intelligence. I’ve been told I repeatedly ‘ask for it.’”

            John can’t help it; he laughs. “Well, then. Why don’t you just stop asking for it?”

            He gets a highly skeptical expression at that. “You don’t strike me as the type to hide yourself due to others’ opinions, so I can assume you’ll understand why I wouldn’t want to do the same.”

            “I completely understand and respect you for it.” John stops at a street corner and turns to the boy with a smile. “What’s your name?”

            He gets a narrow, assessing look before replying. “Hamish.”

            John offers his hand and it is gripped in a hearty shake. “Hamish, nice to meet you. My name’s John.” He sniffs, glancing a few blocks down the road to Baker Street. “This… might be an odd offer, but would you care to join me for a cuppa?”

            Clasping his hands together and raising an eyebrow, Hamish responds only after carefully considering the man in front of him.     

            “Considering what you’ve done for me and your occupation, I think I can trust you not to take advantage of me or any instigate any other untoward behavior.” He meets John’s eyes with the barest hint of a smile. “I would appreciate that.”

            They begin to cross the street.

            “So what’s my occupation, then?” John prompts after a moment.

            Hamish immediately replies, “doctor.”

            “You been into the clinic? I don’t remember seeing you.”

            “No,” Hamish admits. “I saw your pen. In your pocket – they only use those at the hospital. I’ve got a friend who’s a nurse, see.”

            John nods, suitably impressed. His pen is stuck in his jacket and only the tip is visible.

            “Then there’s your shoe,” Hamish continues. “You’ve a bit of bleach on the toe. On its own that could mean anything, but combined with the pen and your clearly protective nature…” Hamish trails off, the conclusion not needing to be said.

            Smiling incredulously, John laughs. “You know, I think I’ve got someone who’d like to meet you.”

            Hamish winces. “Last time someone said that to me, I ended up with a split lip.”

            “Well, I can promise that won’t happen this time.” John struggles to keep his tone light despite the sudden darkness in his heart. “Come on, then. We’re here.”

            Hamish glances up and blinks, surprised. “Wait, you live here?”

            “Yes,” John replies, frowning. “Have you… been here before?”

            “Yeah. I know the-“

            “Hamish?” Mrs. Hudson appears from behind the door. “Darling! John, what are you doing with Hamish?”

            Thoroughly baffled, John looks from the boy to his landlady and back. “Um… I’ve missed something.”  He glances between the two with him, eyebrows up. “You know each other?”

            “Of course we do! Hamish comes over some Wednesdays to help with the cleaning… you and Sherlock must always be out when he’s in. I used to tutor him. Well, come in, boys. We can talk about it over tea.”

            They do. They sit at the back of Speedy’s and talk for nearly two hours, constantly refilling their cups and growing progressively rowdier as they warm to each other. John gasps with laughter over Mrs. Hudson’s stories of her less-than-orthodox tutoring methods and Hamish giggles heartily as John relates tales of Sherlock and his crime scenes. Eventually, though, the supper rush begins in earnest and Mrs. Hudson has to bustle off.

            “So, Hamish. Where d’you live? I can make sure you get home, if you like.”

            The boy suddenly looks a bit crestfallen. “Oh. Um… I…”

            “What’s wrong?”

            He winces and averts his gaze. “I live at the orphanage on the other side of the school.”

            John’s thought processes stutter to a halt. “You’re an orphan?” At Hamish’s abashed look, he hurries to speak again. “No, that’s – that’s fine. Um, would you – I’ll take you back still. But I should grab my other coat. It’s getting a bit gray out there.”

            With a quirked eyebrow but no protest, Hamish follows John upstairs. They enter the flat and John conceals a smile as Sherlock watches them come in.

            “Sherlock, this is Hamish. Met him on the street and invited him in for tea. Do be nice, now, while I grab my coat.”

            “You’re wearing your coat.”

            “My other coat. It’s in my room.”

            Sherlock’s eyes roll heavenward as John hurries off. They return to normal and settle on the small boy hovering near the door.    

            “Hamish, he said?”

            “Yes.”

            “Interesting name. Rather high-class for an orphan, isn’t it?”

            The boy shows very little surprise. In fact, one corner of his mouth quirks. “How’d you know?”

            “You’ve come from school, judging by the eraser bits left on your sleeve, but no one picked you up, seeing as how John apparently found you. Not privileged, then, which can be backed up by the state of your clothes, which are well-kept but very used. You decided to walk home, which isn’t too close, going by the wear on your shoes. There are several concealed bruises you’re carrying. So, trouble with the other boys. Who would be underprivileged enough to have scuffed clothing and hidden bruises but well-bred enough to attend school? Probably a boy from the city-funded orphanage a mile or so away from said school.”

            Hamish is frozen. Sherlock waits expectantly for the outbreak, but it never comes. Instead, the boy hops across the room to him, grinning.

            “Wow! I’ve been working on my looking, but I’m nowhere near as good as that! Could you teach me?”

            Rather taken aback, Sherlock blinks twice in succession. “I… teach you?” His voice holds skepticism and curiousity at once.

            “Yeah! Y’know, tell me how you see all that stuff.”

            “I’ve never taught it to anyone before. It’s not so much learning to see as training oneself to observe.”

            “Then tell me how you observe!” Hamish is bouncing slightly on his toes. “Please?”

            Sherlock has no time to answer before John is returning to the room with a hideous dark green coat that he’s never worn before. He glances between them, noting their proximity and Hamish’s eager expression, and smiles.

            “Should we get on, then, Hamish?”

            The boy frowns. “Can I come back tomorrow?”

            The doctor’s smile grows. “Of course.”

                                             

* * *

 

 

            Later that night, John returns to their flat to find Sherlock in the kitchen, bent over a microscope. He approaches the detective from behind, slipping his hands around the other man’s slim waist and propping his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder.

            “You like him.”

            “He’s tolerable. And admittedly brighter than most children his age.”

            There’s a short pause. “He’s an orphan, you know.”

            “Of course I know.”

            John says nothing more. He tugs on Sherlock’s shoulder until they’re facing, and then he stretches up to plant their lips firmly together. Reluctantly, Sherlock’s hands fall away from the microscope and make their way to John’s hips. They stay there in the kitchen for a few minutes before John takes Sherlock’s hand and pulls.

            “Come on. Let me make all those nights I spent worrying up to you, hmm?”

            Sherlock lifts an eyebrow and follows John to their room. There he lets the ex-soldier take the lead. They’re soon naked and in the bed, John efficiently slicking them both with lube before slipping into his detective, relishing in the ragged gasp it brings. He slides in as far as he can go, gripping Sherlock by the shoulders as he begins to thrust.

            They quickly establish a rhythm, used to each other’s movements by now. John resolutely keeps his mind clear of everything but his partner as their hips move together, Sherlock gripping the bedspread tight as he partakes in the one thing that settles his own thoughts. Grinning toothily, John increases their pace and Sherlock actually moans.

            “Not… underperforming anymore… I take it?” John pants out, running an almost violent hand through Sherlock’s hair.

            The lanky man doesn’t bother responding, growling when John’s hand appears around his erection.

            Their climaxes come very close to each other, John riding through his with a series of loud noises and Sherlock with much clawing and licking.

            Afterwards, John settles sleepily into Sherlock, keeping his head tucked tight under the other man’s chin. Sherlock’s unbelievably long limbs wrap tightly about him, and they fall asleep peacefully.

                                            

* * *

 

 

            Over the next couple of weeks, John falls into a new routine. He goes to work as always, but now when he finishes, Hamish is waiting for him. They walk to Baker Street together, never bothered by any other schoolboys, and greet Mrs. Hudson before traipsing up to the flat. Sherlock eyes him suspiciously the first few times, but after a few days, he stops and begins to talk to their guest. Hamish mentions chess once and after that it seems John has lost the boy all together. As soon as they reach the flat he’s playing with Sherlock. If the man’s there, the board will undoubtedly be set up before they arrive.

            It’s not quite two weeks after _that_ development that John corners Sherlock. Hamish has just left and Sherlock is putting the board away. John takes it from him and pushes him into his chair, bracing both hands on the armrests. Sherlock stares at him.

            “He’s an orphan.”

            “Yes, John, we’re both aware of that.”

            “We both like him.”

            “I enjoy his company in the afternoons when I’ve nothing else to do. That does not mean I wish to father him.”

            John sighs; doesn’t move. “It wouldn’t take much more than that. He already knows how to take care of himself. He even wants to learn from you, Sherlock. He’s quiet and brilliant and everything you asked for. And I know you don’t believe in fate, but even you have to admit it’s quite the coincidence that I just _happened_ to find him.”

            Sherlock is silent in his chair, gaze locked somewhere behind John’s chest. “It’s dangerous.”

            “I know that. _He_ knows that.”

            “Has he asked you for this?”

            And suddenly their eyes are meeting, and Sherlock is sitting up straighter.

            “What?”

            “Hamish. Has he asked that you… that we… adopt him?”

            John purses his lips. “No. But I think it’s clear that’s what he wants.”

            “He’ll be too old for the boy’s home soon.” It’s a statement of fact. John knows that Sherlock begins rattling off obvious things when he’s unsettled. He refuses to offer meaningless comfort this time, sticking to his stance.

            “Yes. He will.”

            “He has a very low chance of becoming successful if he has no parents.”

            “He does.”

            “He has a very _high_ chance of being _killed_ if we somehow manage to make it through the damned paperwork they’ll give us and become his parents.”

            John’s heart constricts. “We’ll keep him as safe as we can, Sherlock.” He breathes, considering his next words carefully. “You know… _He’s_ gone.” (Moriarty will always, always be a spectre for them and John hates him more for that than for anything else.) “You got rid of Him. And I don’t think anyone else will be able to come anywhere near his… skill level. Hamish will be safe with us, much safer than he’d be anywhere else.”

            Sherlock looks up, his gaze shuttered but cracking, the slips in his defenses revealing so much rawness that John feels his throat close up.

            “You want this too, Sherlock. Don’t let your fear get in the way. We can do this.”

            He says nothing. John doesn’t dare pull away.

            It is eternities later that those dark curls bob as he nods.

            John is on him instantly, kissing him so hard and long that by the time he pulls away he’s oxygen deprived and as giddy as Sherlock Holmes can get.

            “I love you,” John breathes out, lips against Sherlock’s neck. “You won’t regret this.”

                                             

* * *

 

 

            It’s almost another month before the paperwork is finished. They don’t tell Hamish until then, for fear of the deal falling through. But when they do clear everything up, John thinks he’s never had a harder time keeping a secret than on the way to Baker Street that day.

            Hamish is fortunately in front of him so he can’t study John’s face. They finally reach the ever-familiar ‘Speedy’s’ sign and John can hardly breathe, grinning as Hamish darts up the steps and inside. Mrs. Hudson is there with a smile and a cup of tea. She winks at John as he hurries after Hamish, her grin growing fond and watery.

            They’re upstairs before John can even blink, and he’s out of breath by the time he spots Sherlock at his chair, stiff and unblinking. He walks over to the man and grips his shoulder.

            “Relax.”

            Hamish is looking around in confusion. The chess board isn’t out and the place looks cleaner than normal.

            “Is something going on?”

            “Yes,” John answer, hand still on Sherlock’s shoulder as he faces the boy. “We… have something to tell you.”

            Brow creasing, Hamish sits himself on their couch and waits expectantly. John bites his lip, heart suddenly hammering. Oh, God, what if he doesn’t want this? What if he was comfortable with the games and  the afternoons and doesn’t want them? What if-

            Sherlock is suddenly taking his hand and moving forward in his chair. He doesn’t rise, but he does pin Hamish with a stare that’s warmer than usual.

            “Hamish, if you accept…” He pauses. “If you’re all right with it, we’ve filed the paperwork to adopt you.”

            The silence is pinned in the air between them for a moment. The room holds its breath.

            And then the boy springs off of the couch and attacks, throwing himself into the two men and wrapping his arms around them both.

            “Are you serious?” He’s grinning, tears beginning to leak down his cheeks. “Do you mean it?”

            “Yes,” John laughs, struggling to get over the tightness in his own throat. He beams at Sherlock, who gives him a tentative but genuine smile in return. “Yes, the papers are already through and everything. You could… you could move here tonight, if you want.”

            Hamish stares at him, wonder anew on his face. He suddenly stands, hands at his sides, cheeks glistening.

            “Thank you.” He stares them both down. “Thank you. I – I’ll be good. I will.”

            “Yes, we know, Hamish.” John lays a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.   

            The three stay like that awhile longer, discussing the details. Hamish is all too ready to pick up his few belongings from the orphanage, so they’re soon bundled into a taxi and headed that way. When they come back, Mrs. Hudson has a cake waiting for them.

            They stay in her kitchen well into the night, celebrating between them until she sends them all off to bed. They all fall asleep on the floor in the living area, Hamish caught close between Sherlock and John. He nods off with a smile still on his face.

                                              

* * *

 

 

            _Six  years later…_

 

            “Dad, really, I don’t think it could get any straighter.”

            “Oh, I don’t know. Just give me another minute.”

            “I’m going to be late!”

            “Then we’ll have Mycroft get us a car and drive you ourselves. Don’t worry about it.”

            “Oh, God. That’s been your plan all along, hasn’t it?”

            “Don’t be ridiculous.”

            Hamish pulls away from John, who’s spent the last five minutes straightening his bowtie. Sherlock is dragging his trunk towards the door and has stopped to look him over.

            “Ready to go, then?”

            John’s face crumples just the smallest bit. Hamish smiles at him.

            “Yeah, ready.”

            “Off to Uni already. God.” John grins as Sherlock comes up beside him and takes his hand. “Do you remember when we brought you home? For good?”

            “Of course I do! How on earth could I forget?” He steps closer to them, putting a hand on each of their shoulders. “I’ll never stop thanking you. You’re the best dads any son could ever have.” He pulls them close, squeezing them into a tight embrace. Sherlock sighs in a longsuffering way, causing Hamish to pull away with a laugh. “Shut up, dad. I know you have a façade to keep up, but don’t pretend you aren’t going to miss me.”

            Sherlock quirks a small smile. “Well, I will be bored without our nightly chess games, I suppose.”

            “That’s the spirit.” Hamish grabs his case handle and turns towards the door, opening it before facing them again. “I’ll be back for Christmas. It’ll be here sooner than we think, I’m sure.”

            “Of course.”

            No one comments on the nigh undetectable tremor in John’s voice.

            “Well… I’m off, then. See you soon.”

            “Goodbye, Hamish.”

            “Write to us! Or me, anyway.”

            “I will. Goodbye!”

            He waves and is gone. John leans into Sherlock, who wraps a firm arm around his shoulders.

            “Never expected this when we married, did you?”

            Sherlock huffs into John’s hair. “Of course not. We strictly said ‘no children.’”

            “You don’t regret it.”

            “Of course not,” he says again. “You’re tired, John. You’re saying stupid things.”

            Looking up, John cocks an eyebrow, and it’s suddenly years ago, and they have no son, and they’ve only just started chasing criminals, and Sherlock has only begun to notice the heat in his abdomen when John looks at him a certain way. They’re not anxious for a phone call from a university, or grieving for any lost friends from the Yard, or wondering when the aches in their joints will become too much.

            They are young, and they are a detective and his blogger, and they are in love.

            “Better take me to bed, then.”

            And he does. 

 

         


End file.
